


Too Young To Die

by themorninglark



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon Era, Gen, Gen Shiro and Pidge bonding, M/M, POV Shiro, Pre-Canon Speculation, Shiro introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:54:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7455262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/themorninglark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Among the jagged, disparate shards that lie strewn across his recollections, it's startling how <i>immediate</i> some things feel. How, if he closes his eyes, it's like yesterday, for past the swathes of blurry images and broken memories, there's a time that lies untouched, untainted: the klaxon peal of Garrison bells, the earth-rending <i>whoosh</i> of mission launch - like the world's largest breath being sucked in - and, at the most unpredictable of times, the sound of Keith's footstep in a corridor.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Too Young To Die

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of thoughts about Shiro, and Keith and Shiro, and _Shiro_ , and yeah. Part of this fic was sparked off from [this scene at the end of Ep 2](https://twitter.com/nahyutas/status/749517629241655297). 
> 
> You can read this as a companion to [Victorious](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7373140), my Keith pre-canon fic, but it also stands alone fine. You can also listen to Panic! At The Disco as I did while writing it (thanks P!ATD for the title).

 

 

 _We need to talk,_ says Shiro, except he doesn’t; his voice stays trapped within the jail-cell confines of his own mind, an ash-grey chamber smeared with handprint memories. Little dented impressions of his knuckles, drumming a steady beat into the walls. _One. Two. Three. Run._ That was then. This is now. Red flashes before his eyes, and it’s a gunfire pulse that quickens in his veins, _one, two, three,_ and then his breathing’s calm again and he remembers where he is and what he wanted to say.

The words never make it out of his mouth. His throat’s dry, and silent, patient, he wakes from his hazy impressions with a tiny shake of his head and finds himself framed in a doorway. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, seized with a sudden craving for one of those Altean juice packs as he watches Keith on the training deck.

It’s mesmeric, his movement. A sword dance befitting his flickering flame.

Shiro sizes up the combat simulation with a quick survey from his practised eye. The gladiator’s set at maybe _Level 2_ , maximum, just a warm up; nothing to really push Keith to his _absolute_ limits, but maybe, knowing Keith, that’s a good thing -

Even in the static air of the Castle of Lions, Shiro could swear he glimpses the desert wind, whipping the shadows into a frenzy at Keith’s heels.

Keith charges forward, rides the shifting tide into the light and parries another blow. The _clang_ of blade on blade hums in Shiro’s chest like a battle cry. He feels a twitch in his right arm, mechanical or _otherwise_ , flexes his fingers and holds back. That much, he can manage. That much, he’s instilled in himself.

So, watching Keith’s feet fly, his own stand their ground. The soles of his boots press into cool, solid metal, and this enclosed space is a safe embrace lit up in soothing blue, neon for a brighter, better time. He’ll take the small mercies he gets, these days.

This is one: the luxury of stolen moments, each a hard-won notch in a different part of him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _The third quintant of the Spicolian movement._ No, he supposes, by now, it's the fourth - or the fifth? - well, however time works, out here. Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped keeping track.

Still, Shiro figures with a wry grin to himself, they must be well past _hump day_ by now.

On his way back to his room, he pauses by a window and looks out at this part of the galaxy. The moons of Arus are distant tonight. There they hang: a milky half-moon, face cloaked coyly, and on a different axis, so small it could pass for a rose-quartz star, the other moon. Whole and patient, casting a pale pink hue across its corner of the sky.

And there _are_ stars out there, in constellations older than the sun, and where there are stars there are dust clouds and gas clouds and infinity and incandescence enough for the breadth and depth of the universe, except that they are far away and it would take millions of years to gather all that light.

They do not have millions of years. They only have _today_ , and every choice they make, to make sure there's a tomorrow.

Heat pools in the heart of Shiro's left palm. He clenches it tight, remembers this sensation on the other half of his body like a phantom pain; starts to shake it off, shuffle it away, away, into an ice-cold prison -

 

_no._

 

He grits his teeth, determined. Feels the key twist, the door unlock into deep space, another memory so elusive that when he lays hands on it, he's unsure it's real. It _is_ real. He was there, he was whole, once, and this was how it felt.

Inside, the ashes stir.

He'll own his pain. The Galra have taken enough from him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Among the jagged, disparate shards that lie strewn across his recollections, it's startling how _immediate_ some things feel. How, if he closes his eyes, it's like yesterday, for past the swathes of blurry images and broken memories, there's a time that lies untouched, untainted: the klaxon peal of Garrison bells, the earth-rending  _whoosh_ of mission launch - like the world's largest breath being sucked in - and, at the most unpredictable of times, the sound of Keith's footstep in a corridor.

Except _this_ time here and now, he had not recognised Keith’s footstep, not at first, and that had been a surprise and a pang in his side, dull for bluntness, for surrender to the fact that one year had passed, and there was nothing he could do to get it back.

 _Shiro,_ Keith had called, and _this_ , at least, he _had_ recognised.

This, he remembered clear as the dawn.

And like the dawn, triumphant on the promise of what lay ahead, he’d permitted himself to relax into a smile as he turned. Another flashback, this one kinder; a time when he'd worn a different uniform, and so had Keith, but their positions had been much the same, and he had been looking over his shoulder just like _this_ , never quite understanding what was coming for him.

On the flipside, it seemed, too, that Keith had never quite understood what he was orbiting. He'd just gone and done it anyway, his convictions a tempestuous firefly beacon that shone across impossible skies.

 _Hey, Keith,_ Shiro had returned the greeting, and Keith, an arm’s length away, slowed to a stop and smiled back, a free-fall smile like _tomorrow_ and _tomorrow_ and the event horizon of their _together_ , tripping into a different kind of gravity.

_You were great today, Shiro. We did it. We formed Voltron._

_It wasn't just me,_ and it had been an swift and easy admission for Shiro to make, for it was true, and filled with pride; _it was a team effort, Keith, you've -_

And against the hushing twilight, Keith stepped forward with a confident stride to lay a hand on Shiro's shoulder.

Through the space-grade fabric, he felt the warmth of Keith's palm burn like the spark of life and shoot blaster-straight down his metal arm, feverish and undaunted.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_"You've really grown."_

_"Hey, I didn't spend that one year twiddling my thumbs after getting kicked out."_

_"I can see that. You haven't lost your edge. But I meant it in other ways, you know?"_

_"…Yeah, I think I know. Thanks. Night, Shiro."_

_"Goodnight, Keith."_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Pidge, as she does, finds him in the lounge and finds a space next to him, without asking. Shiro lets her. It's strange to see her alone, without Rover at her shoulder.

He thinks, _maybe it's because of me that Pidge has lost someone again._

But like the day's last light, the thought sets into a darkness that's, if not quite _comforting_ , at least a familiar enough demon, and he tries to brush it off like a moth from the flame. This he knows, too, the wingtip graze of a gentler, no less dangerous blade. They lie in wait in his contemplations. Sometimes he cuts himself on them.

He's trying, _trying_ not to.

Then there's a nudge at his right arm and he doesn't _feel_ it so much as _sense_ it coming close, like a radar, and he turns to look. Pidge is rapping her fingers against the prosthetic with a curious look on her face, and when she meets his gaze, she's sheepish and eager and her eyes shine like a brand new nebula.

"Can I look at your arm?" she asks breathlessly. Shiro laughs, and stretches it out on her lap.

"Go ahead," he says. "Do whatever you like."

Pidge produces a tiny screwdriver from her utility belt, shuffles closer and picks up Shiro's arm, twisting it round from side to side as she studies it through a focused squint.

"Hmm," she mutters, as she tries to prise a panel open. "Tell me if anything I do hurts."

"It doesn't hurt," says Shiro, leaning back.

Pidge glances up briefly to rap him on the shoulder with her screwdriver. A frown creases her brow as she shoots him a pointed glare, voice rising in the firm, strident tones that make Shiro think of Matt and the way he used to tell him to _take a break_. "That's not what I said, Shiro. I said, _tell me if_ , okay? I don't want you to try and _be strong_ through the pain, I might cut off a nerve, or _something_!"

"I don't think I have anything to fear from you, Pidge. This arm's been through a lot. I don't even remember half the things it's - "

And the rest of Shiro's words are a riptide tearing across his mind, and he presses his left hand to his temple, his ear, breath hitching in sudden, ragged, rhythms; when his eyes blink open again, Pidge's pulled away and she's biting down on her lower lip like she's might have _done_ something wrong.

"Did I hurt you?"

Shiro shakes his head emphatically. "It's just… I don't know what data you'll get out of this, but it might not all be - good. I don't know if you'll want to see it."

Pidge nods and squares her shoulders.

" _Your_ secrets are safe with me," she intones, an echo enfolding a shared promise, and ventures a small, reassuring smile.

Shiro exhales, grateful.

"Thanks, Pidge," he says, smiling back. Silently, he contemplates their creed.

_No secrets between paladins._

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _We need to talk,_ thinks Shiro, except maybe they don’t; Keith’s never been much of a _talker_ anyway. Shiro likes to think he's better at it. Sometimes he's better at it. Sometimes, he falls back on a familiar way out: there isn't a flight simulator here on Arus, but there _is_ an incredibly advanced spacecraft with his name on it, and the clear skies beckon like a clarion call.

So Shiro gets into the Black Lion, and takes off.

 _It's training_ , he cautions himself, _this is training_ , and he doesn't do anything too crazy. No nosedives, no breakneck velocities, just a few warm-up drills and manoeuvres round strange, rocky terrain, but when he makes a hairpin turn round a drifting asteroid and re-enters the pink Arusian dusk, he's somehow unsurprised to see the Red Lion pull up alongside him.

His intercom crackles, flickers briefly, and Keith's face appears in projection, but there are no words, and they don't _need_ words, only the invitation that toys around Keith's grin and the narrowing of Shiro's eyebrows, the smooth, siren _roar_ of Keith's lion making a series of loops in the air, buoyed by the rising wind.

And there are no rules, no curfews out here, no Garrison guards to pull them back to base, _sure_ , there's a universe of evil to fight and they're the last hope of all living things, _but_ -

(Well, Keith's always thrived best when the stakes are highest.)

The adrenaline surges through Shiro's veins. At the lightest of touches, Black Lion responds.

They are one, Shiro and his lion, and _they_ are one, Shiro and Keith, flying side by side again after all this time, and Shiro hears Keith's hearty _whoop_ ring out and he can't help but join in as they line up in formation, carve their names like fireworks across the atmosphere of _this_ planet too, so far from home.

Keith skims low, close to the ground, then turns Red Lion up into a 90 degree trajectory and takes to the heavens in a burst of speed - up - _up_ \- he doesn't stop -

And Shiro catches up to that trail of flame in half a second, their streaking paths across the cosmos a perfect symphony in parallel, as they conquer the night.

He does not stop to think. He's never really _thought_ , when it comes to Keith.

From the start, in the same way Keith did _everything_ , they had simply fallen together, drawn into the same irresistable force field by the shared gut instincts that made them both great pilots, and they are young and _this_ can be theirs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the middle of dinner, Lance taps the side of his bowl with his spoon, clears his throat in an ostentatious manner, and takes a deep breath like he's about to deliver an earth-shattering announcement.

Keith takes a drink and rolls his eyes at Shiro.

"Did you _know_ ," Lance says, in hushed tones, "Coran doesn't know what _rain_ is?"

At the head of the table, Allura blinks.

"What _is_ rain?" she asks.

"See!" Lance gesticulates wildly. Hunk, with unerring reflexes, reaches out to catch his wrist seconds before he flings an agitated spoonful of goo at Allura.

Shiro tilts his head to one side, curious. "You didn't have rain on Altea, Princess? It's, uh… like water, that falls from the sky."

"More _scientifically_ speaking," Pidge cuts in, "it's a form of precipitation caused by the evaporation of water into the atmosphere - "

Lance sticks out his tongue and tips his chair back, making a dismissive _phbbbttt_ noise between his lips as he folds his arms. "That's what rain is, but that's not what rain _is_. Y'know, rain's like. That _smell_? That _pitter-patter_ sound on your windows? That _feeling_ when you run through it, like, _yeeeah_?"

Allura, through her bemusement, is smiling anyway; Lance has that effect. Hunk lets out an audible sigh and slumps in his seat.

"The last time it rained," he says, glaring at Lance, "we were caught _outside_ and I did _not_ feel like _yeeeeah_. Do you remember, Pidge?"

Pidge lets out an indignant snort. "Yeah. It was _Lance's_ idea."

"What happened?" asks Keith, leaning forward. "I'm _always_ ready to hear about Lance screwing up."

"Hey!" Lance squeaks, as Pidge and Hunk launch into a detailed and animated account of his indiscretions, and Shiro, amid the chatter, Lance's yelps, and the occasional wince from Allura, takes a moment to survey his team.

They're a ragtag bunch, but fate could've chosen worse; in Pidge, Hunk and Lance, they've got a unit used to each other, and in Shiro and Keith, another, and like stray constellations patchworked together across a fragmented sky, they've somehow made it whole. A year ago, before Kerberos, perhaps he'd have thought twice about choosing Keith for a team - or, in truth, himself, for a leader -

Keith laughs out loud at something Hunk says then, and the sound makes Shiro smile; across the table, Pidge catches his eye and shoots him an infinitesimal raise of her eyebrow.

_Your secrets are safe with me._

Shiro shifts his smile for her, an admission he makes to himself as well.

 

 

* * *

 

 

"We need to talk," says Shiro, at last, except Keith doesn't hear him over the _clash_ and _clang_ of mortal combat; but then their eyes meet and Keith lowers his sword.

"End training sequence," he calls out.

The gladiator dissolves into thin air as Keith turns to face Shiro, blade retracting into his bayard. He runs a hand through his hair, cracks his neck from side to side.

"Looking for me?" he asks, dropping to the floor without a sound. Even in cooldown, he moves with a warrior's grace; his breath's uneven, his shoulders heaving lightly. There's a glistening sheen of sweat on his brow. No one's worked harder than Keith on the training deck, and it shows.

Shiro hears his own words echo in memory, replays the truth of them once more, for good measure. _You've really grown._ A year's made a lot of difference, it seems.

As he approaches, Keith stretches his legs out, leans back on his hands and looks up at him. Fearless. Still burning.

"I've been meaning to ask," Shiro starts. He pauses to sits down next to Keith and gather his thoughts. "So. What happened out there?"

"That… that question sounds familiar," Keith answers without answering, a smile tugging on his lips.

"You asked me that when you rescued me. But I never got to ask _you_ the same thing," Shiro points out. He fixes Keith with a steady, expectant gaze, and cuts straight to the chase. "How _did_ you flunk out?"

Keith tilts his head back, stares at the ceiling for a while.

Shiro watches. Counts the seconds, or, as befits their present situation, the _ticks_. The heartbeat in his left wrist. The cool silence in his right. Out of habit, his fingers start drumming time on the floor. It doesn't take long. In this game of patience, they both know who's got the upper hand.

Keith sighs explosively as he pitches forward, hugs one knee to his chest and shifts his weight. Restless. Closer.

"It's not like you didn't see it coming," he says. "I guess I just never felt like I belonged in the Garrison. And then you went missing."

Shiro's voice wavers. "If you're telling me, Keith, that you dropped out because _I_ wasn't there - "

" _No,_ " Keith cuts in, and he's _impatient_ , as always, but his honesty's clear as his fierceness, like a swift blade to the throat. Right at Shiro's weakest point. "It's not like that, Shiro. _I_ made that choice. So stop blaming yourself."

( _There_ , right there - a graze like a kiss, a nick to his bare skin, drawing out - not blood, but _guilt_ , and remnants of himself he'd buried too deep, too long.)

And when Keith, _impulsive_ \- or not - he's grown, after all -

When he reaches for Shiro's hand to clasp it tight, it's the most natural thing in the world.

Cupped in Keith's palm, like _this_ , they're diamond asteroids in the rough and he can be imperfect, _human_ , he can be metal and ash and _warmth_ all at once because pulsing, flickering, somewhere within, they're the same kind of supernova heat, and Shiro, out of nowhere, remembers the rain. One escapade and countless joyrides ago.

It had pelted them hard and fast that day, and they'd sprinted across the sands on Keith's hoverbike, taken refuge in a wooden shack on the edge of wild country, behind broken fences.

Another galaxy, another boundary that falls between the cracks like it was never there.

"I'm _okay_ ," says Keith. "So are you."

He leans in. Presses his forehead to Shiro's, thirsting, _insistent_. Their gravity's calling.

Shiro breathes in, breathes out, and takes what he's given without question, for once.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading ♥ comments are loved and I cry and yell about these two a lot on Twitter @nahyutas.


End file.
